


Whispers

by CharismaticAlpaca



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Oneshot, Other, Short, implied shipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 01:53:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5609413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharismaticAlpaca/pseuds/CharismaticAlpaca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cole's digging doesn't always bring up old pain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whispers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Luddleston](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luddleston/gifts).



The Fallow Mire. Exactly where no one wanted to spend an afternoon, least of all The Iron Bull, even if it did mean a significant dent in the numbers of Undead stumbling around.

But the place was unnerving enough without a whatever-the-hell-Cole-was trailing behind their little company, flitting around with a dagger in each thin hand, popping Undead lungs like wet balloons. Every corner they turned, Bull lost track of him and found him moments later positioned exactly in his blind spot. Just out of sight. He tried for a while to put Lavellan there instead, but the elf seemed to take that as a challenge and ran all the faster until all of them were panting, their eyes watering from the stench of death and swamp gas.

So he dealt with it, as he had to.

They dragged themselves, waterlogged, onto one of the patches of dry land that dotted the swamp. Firm ground beneath his feet should have been a welcome respite from the mud, but Bull knew what it meant. Cassandra put her back to the standing stone in the center of the island, raising her shield higher. Bull followed suit, his shoulders brushing the rock. Cole slipped out of sight.

Green light flared on the water as Lavellan lit the torch.

Shiny gray bodies formed out of fog, drawn like waterlogged moths to the flame. They clutched rusted swords, butter knives, bows with arrows half-rotted but still tipped with something sharp.

He waited.

They lurched closer. Six in his line of sight; he preferred not to concern himself with those outside of it. The first one put one bare foot on the grass, and he shifted his grip on his greataxe.

Two on land. One still in the water nocked an arrow. The corpse at the front raised a broken blade over its head.

The bowstring creaked.

Fire exploded overhead. It swept harmlessly over the company and barreled into the Undead, making their slimy skin sizzle, turning limbs black. The one closest to Bull hissed, baring exactly three teeth. With a bellow, he lunged at it, and his axe passed cleanly through its middle.

A very distinct _crack_ from the region of his left horn alerted him to the one with the bow. He charged it, spinning his axe over his head, and it went down just as easily as the first. A glance around told him that the rest were having similar luck; Cassandra stood on the back of one fallen creature as she decapitated another, and Lavellan was making torches out of them, which was very useful for dispelling the heavy shadow that hung over this accursed place. They could easily have been at a party. A very twisted party.

Cole, of course, was nowhere to be seen. Bull backtracked out of the water, axe at his side. How were they supposed to make sure the kid was okay if he stayed just as hidden from them as from the corpses?

Distracted, he heard the hiss at his left when it was far too close. He whirled to face it, kicking, and the corpse stumbled back, brandishing a short dagger as it did; it was too close, and Bull was off balance, and his grip on the axe was wrong… And then the thing toppled forward, leaving Cole standing there, clutching daggers that dripped with black blood.

“I owe you one, kid,” he gasped, finding his balance.

Cole just smiled and flitted towards the walking torches. Which, as it turned out, were encircling Lavellan in a way that shouldn’t happen to the precious Herald of Andraste, so he put his head down and did what he did best: charged. 

 

* * *

  

The Undead were re-dead. Lavellan nursed his wounds, reiterating his gratitude as Bull kept watch and Cole squatted beside him, examining the burns on his hands. Singed sleeves were about the worst of it for the elf, but even that was too much.

“We should get back to camp.” Cassandra tapped one foot, sword and shield at the ready. “There could be more of them.”

“Then we’ll squash more of them.” Well, _Bull_ would; he couldn’t say the same for their poor Inquisitor.

The elf rose. “You’re right. I’m lucky I had you three with me.”

 _You_ three, in particular. That probably meant that this arrangement was likely to repeat itself. Lavellan limped off in the direction of the far-off fire of camp, and Bull trailed behind. He supposed he could get used to this company, eventually. As long as the kid didn’t do that _thing_ again.

“You and Krem say words that hurt.” Right by his damn left ear. “But they aren’t real, The Iron Bull.”

Yes, that _thing_ in particular.

 

* * *

  

Everyone was clapping him on the back and buying him drinks and calling him a hero.

Well, him and the other two. One, really, since Cole could slip away from the attention when it became too much. Cassandra brushed it off, and he tried to, but the people were everywhere.

Saviors of the Herald. They had banded together to rescue Lavellan from a veritable sea of Undead. He might have died if not for them. It was all exaggerated, and the elf knew it, and he was doing it deliberately. The more people loved them, trusted them, the better.

There was one person he wanted to talk to.

_It means friendship. And that you're soldiers. Krem likes it, it makes him proud._

He had seen Krem when they came into the tavern. A flash of armor. Gone now into the sea of people.

“You really charged them? Just like a bull?” The elf woman was small, but she was pushing a very large tankard of something towards him. Tankard number… he had lost track.

“Sure did,” he said, accepting the booze because there was no real reason not to. “With the others, of course.” That part was lost in the cheer that went up because Cassandra had thrown back a glass of Dwarven ale, probably on a dare.

“How many of them were there?”

“Five or six left. The Inquisitor’s blowing it up to make us look good.”

She was growing dreamy-eyed. “He said at least twenty.”

He turned his attention to the booze in the hopes of getting it off him, and it didn’t really work, but he put in a valiant effort.

“Sounds like the chief I know.”

There was another tankard beside him, attached to an arm in an iron-plated sleeve.

_The armor is right._

“Twenty, right? Go on.”

“Six,” he said, his eyes on the russet-haired man. “Most of them with swords, one with a hatchet. There was a meat cleaver thrown in somewhere.”

The elf girl sighed dreamily.

“They were on fire. The Inquisitor lit them up.”

Krem smirked.

“They were all closing in, and the three of us charged.”

“Exciting.”

“It took less than a minute to knock them all down.”

“Do better next time.” Krem slapped him on the arm. “I’m turning in. Enjoy yourself.”

_The body isn’t, but it doesn’t hurt him anymore._

“Krem…” Bull lost sight of him in the crowd. Soon he was replaced with three men, interrogating him for the sake of a bet, and he devoted himself to stringing them along for as long as he could.

 

* * *

 

Hours had passed by the time he got away.

The tavern quieted down. He stayed until no one wanted to talk to him anymore, which meant it was well past midnight, and Cole was long gone and Cassandra was trying to wrap up. Lavellan was still going strong, laughing with a crowd of admirers, but he held his ale better than any elf Bull had ever seen.

He laughingly bade a final dwarf goodnight and darted up the stairs before he could be intercepted.

Krem’s room was farthest from the stairs, nice and quiet. Castle walls were well insulated. It was a hidden corner for him when he needed it.

He knocked softly on the closed door. There was no answer.

It couldn’t hurt to check on him. He silently turned the knob and opened the door just a sliver, which was an impressive accomplishment when one took up most of a hallway’s width with horn span alone.

And Krem took up exactly one quarter of his bed, curled into a tight little ball. He looked so small Bull was tempted to pick him up and carry him off, an instinct he avoided now as he always did. The blankets were tucked neatly around him, up to his nose.

Bull could hear him breathe.

He shut the door.

_You make it better._

**Author's Note:**

> Luddleston told me not to listen to Cole and Bull's banter. So I did. Aside from being absurdly beautiful, a few of the lines actually mentioned my ship, and they stuck with me to the point of making me want to write fanfiction:
> 
> Cole: You and Krem say words that hurt, but they aren't real, The Iron Bull.  
> Iron Bull: Yes. We give each other grief. It's a soldier thing. Doesn't mean anything.  
> Cole: It means friendship. And that you're soldiers. Krem likes it, it makes him proud.  
> Iron Bull: I guess I can see that. Him, huh?  
> Cole: Is that wrong?  
> Iron Bull: No, no. I just thought, since you do that thing where you see into people's heads...  
> Iron Bull: Actually, you're good, kid. Keep it up.  
> Cole: The armor is right. The body isn't, but it doesn't hurt him anymore.  
> Cole: You make it better.


End file.
